


Saving Grace

by oldandnewfirm



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldandnewfirm/pseuds/oldandnewfirm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actions speak louder than words, especially after you’ve been wronged. <strong></strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme.

Yesterday morning this road had lasted an eternity to Belle’s dithering feet. Yesterday afternoon she’d fairly flown down it, propelled by conviction and hope. And now she walked it as though giants sat upon her shoulders, threatening to buckle her with every step.

Her tears had stopped falling some time ago, but she could still feel the sadness sloshing in her bones, waiting for an unguarded moment to boil up. She resolved not to let it. Rumplestiltskin had made his choice. She had to move on. There was no sense in grieving for what might have been.

That was the mantra she’d adopted for the last mile or so, anyway. She had yet to see results.

Something rustled in the undergrowth. Belle glanced over. A pair of crows shot up from behind a fallen tree trunk and took wing, cawing as they rose. They received answering cries from their fellows in the distance.

Her father hated crows. “Noisy little bastards” he called them when he was feeling charitable and, “Filthy scavengers” when he wasn’t. But Belle was not one to begrudge a creature for its nature. As a girl she’d always admired the crows’ sleek, dark feathers and their bright, intelligent eyes. She’d thrown meat scraps to the ones that roosted near her home and whispered secrets to those birds that ventured closest. She’d fancied they could understand her, and that they would answer in turn if only their tongues allowed them.

She stopped to watch them arc into the sky. In a week, maybe less, she’d be home once more, and she would lean out her window to admire the birds sitting in the trees around their estate.

For the first time in hours, a smile crossed her features.

A hand clamped down over her shoulder and wrenched her around. A man—tall, with hair that might have been ginger if it was clean and a leer that revealed a smattering of rotted teeth— twisted a fist into the fabric of her overdress and hauled her up like an empty sack.

She swung at him. He caught her wrist and leveraged her arm into an exotic angle that made her lungs seize and her vision dissolve into white noise. Then he fisted her hair, steered her whole body forward until her face crashed into the trunk of a tree, then slammed himself against her back.

“Pretty, pretty bluebird.” He cooed in Belle’s ear. His rank breath made her nose burn. “What are you doing so far from home?”

“Let me go,” she spat, her words half-muffled by the bark. She struggled against the man, but it was like trying to wrestle a stone wall.

“And a pretty voice too. I bet you can sing.”

Suddenly, the cold tip of a blade dug into the side of her neck. Belle’s retort died on her tongue. She didn’t shudder. She didn’t even breathe.

The man traced a thread-thin arc around Belle’s ear as he used the blade to tuck her hair back. He leaned so close that she could feel the shards of his lip scraping the shell of her ear when he spoke.

“I bet I can _make_ you sing,” he said, punctuating the statement with a raspy chuckle.

Her response came in hiccups, for her mind was reluctant to divert its attention from the blade point pressed into the soft junction between her skull and her neck. “You don’t have to do this.”

The man snorted. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head back. She screamed, half in pain and half in fear that the blade had pierced her flesh. He used her hair like a leash to pull her back from the tree, then a blow to the back of her knees sent her pitching to the ground. She kicked her toes up on the dirt, ready to scramble up and run for the road, but the man’s boot swung into her side, flipping her over and winding her at the same time. Then he was on top of her once more, with a dagger— un-bloodied, she saw, and that comforted her for one wild moment—twirling between his fingers.

“Have to? No. But I _want_ to hear it.” He tapped the dagger against her clavicle. “What do you think, little birdie? Which cut will make you sing the prettiest tune?”

“Let me think,” said Belle, and she hurled a clod of dirt at the man’s head.

It exploded against the side of his face and he reared back with a snarl. She rocked her hips to dislodge him entirely, but he pinned a hand to her chest and bared his teeth.

“You bitch!” he hissed, raising the knife.

Her hands flew up to shield herself, but instead of the expected agony lancing through her midsection, she only felt her skirt whip sideways as the man was launched across the clearing like he’d been struck by a cart horse.

Belle sat up on her knees and stared, mouth hanging open. “Rumplestiltskin?”

The air around him crackled with the passion of a forge. The strength of his magic made her teeth ache. He was stalking towards the man who’d attacked her, who lay senseless on the forest floor. Rumplestiltskin looked ready to eviscerate him, but Belle wanted no blood spilled in her name—no matter how some small part of her thrilled at the thought of it, in this case.

“Rumplestiltskin!” She said again, louder, with a touch of urgency in her voice. When he turned, the look on his face made her wish she’d said nothing at all.

Then, his expression cleared, and he was at her side.

“Belle! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said before flinging her arms around his neck.

Relief and terror were running riot through Belle’s veins; she barely noticed the way Rumplestiltskin tensed, then relaxed, in her embrace. After a few moments, she felt his arms sliding tentatively around her back.

Suddenly, he bellowed and shoved her onto the dirt. She sputtered and rolled onto her back, eyes sparking. Her anger became horror when she saw the man they’d both forgotten standing over Rumplestiltskin with his hand still clenching the handle of the dagger he’d buried in Rumplestiltskin’s back.

The man yanked the blade out. Blood glistened on the metal. He raised his arm as if to drive it home again, but Rumplestiltskin flung out a hand and the man vanished in a plume of acrid smoke.

Rumplestiltskin grunted, then slumped over. Belle scrambled around to his back to see the extent of the damage.

There was a slash in Rumplestiltskin’s vest that was roughly as long as two-thirds of her pinky. Blood clung to the edges of it, but it had likely caught there when Belle’s attacker had withdrawn the knife. She’d have to remove his vest and his shirt to examine the wound properly.

His breath was coming in labored wheezes. Belle looked around. There was no place near for her to lay him down as she worked. Nor would she want to, now that she thought about it. If Rumplestiltskin’s injury was serious, they needed to be in a place with the proper provisions to treat him.

“Rumple,” she said gently, touching his shoulder.

He acknowledged her with a slow blink, but he said nothing. His lips were curled in a grimace. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

“We need to go to town,” she said. “You need a doctor.”

He shook his head.

“Rumple, don’t be stupid. You’re obviously injured, you need someone who—”

“Castle,” he grit out.

“What?”

“Do it myself. At the castle.” Then, he gasped like a fish in air. Belle clapped her hands over his shoulders and made soothing noises until he’d calmed.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “Fine, we’ll go to the castle.”

At “we,” he glanced up. Belle narrowed her eyes. This was not a decision up for discussion.

The slump of his shoulders signaled his relent. One moment they were in the forest, and the next they were in the castle tower, on the floor next to his potion cabinet.

Belle wasted no time. “This has to come off,” she said, plucking at his vest. “The shirt too. Here, let me help you.”

The grimace became something sharper, more dangerous. Belle rolled her eyes, then sat back on her ankles and let out a huff.

“You can barely breathe,” she said. “Moving around is just going to make it worse.”

Before he could launch another protest, Belle started undoing the fastenings keeping his vest closed. But the angle was bad, and the hooks were reluctant to come free. As she struggled with the third, Rumplestiltskin swatted weakly at her hands. He gestured, and both vest and shirt appeared in a pile on the floor.

After living with the man for almost a full year, Belle thought she’d have grown used to such displays, but her eyes still widened as leather suddenly became an expanse of smooth, gray-green flesh.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Well, let’s see how bad the damage is, then.”

It was difficult to see anything for all of the blood. Some of it had smeared around the gash in his back in ragged swathes, probably dragged there by his shirt, but the rest of it streamed down his back to collect somewhere beneath the hem of his breeches. She rested her fingers a little high and to the right of where she guessed the wound to be, then ghosted her fingers through the blood until they skittered over rent flesh. Strangely, she could feel air hissing in and out of the gash. Was the reason he was struggling to breathe?

“Rumple,” she said. “I can clean and dress this, but I think you really do need to see the doctor. The wound’s deep, and it’s sucking in air. I don’t know how to fix that.”

Rumplestiltskin said nothing. His eyes were huge and unfocused.

Her heart thudded in her chest. “Rumple, please.”

Slowly, he rolled his attention to her. His tongue flicked over his lips and left them bloody. A wet gasp rattled past his teeth, as though he were trying to speak.

“Don’t,” she said. “You’re going to make it worse. Just…just show me what you want, all right?”

He twitched a finger. From the direction of his work table, Belle heard a sound like a dozen bird wings churning. When she looked over she realized that it was one of the books on his table flipping pages frantically.

She darted over to it in time to see it snap to a halt on a page labeled _For Injuries Great and Grievous._ A potion, she realized. Beneath it was a brief description of the potion’s purpose and proper usage, followed by a list of ingredients, measures, and directions in Rumplestiltskin’s tight, lopsided script.

“All right,” she said, after she’d glanced over everything. “I can do this. But first, that stab. We’ve got to stop the bleeding at least. Where do you keep your dressings?”

A drawer flew open to her left. Belle dug around until she found a roll of clean cloth and a pair of scissors, then she returned to Rumplestiltskin’s side. After a moment’s consideration she grabbed his shirt and wadded it into a ball that she pressed to his wound. She braced it there with her shoulder until she’d wound the bandage around his torso tightly enough for the makeshift dressing to not fall off. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do until the potion was finished.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

His head drooped. She hoped it was meant to be a nod.

She rolled up her sleeves and went back to the table. “Okay now. First thing, three teaspoons of essence of dittany…”

She talked to him as she worked, as much to keep him alert as to soothe her own nerves. She commented on the recipe, on his dreadful handwriting, and on the strange items on his shelf. Her words floated bright and easy through the air, even as her trembling fingers whisked up bottles and shoved them back again.

“Almost done!” She called when she’d finally gathered the ingredients.

No answer. She looked up to see him slumped over his knees, motionless.

“Rumple!”

She ran over, propped him up, grabbed his chin and twisted his face from side to side.

“Rumple,” she hissed again. When he didn’t respond, she slapped him lightly on the cheek. His eyelids dragged up.

“Stay awake,” she said. “I’m almost done. You just need to stay with me for a few minutes longer, all right? _All right_?”

His eyes had started drooping shut again, but at her insistent tone he looked at her and nodded slowly. Belle stroked a few strands of sweat-matted hair from his face, then stood and ran back to the table.

There was an art to potion making she was sure, and at that moment she didn’t care a whit about it. By the time she’d finished measuring out the ingredients and dumping them in a small bowl, the tabletop was littered with a colorful array of puddles and powders, some of which had begun to smoke.

Belle snatched up a whisk and started churning the potion into a bubbling, steaming frenzy as she returned to Rumplestiltskin. He’d slumped over again, and this time when she clapped his cheek he didn’t even twitch.

She picked up the scissors she’d used earlier, and with one swipe severed his bandage. She hefted up the bowl in her free hand. The directions had said to apply with an eyedropper, but she didn’t have the patience for that kind of finesse right now.

With two fingers she pried the wound apart, then she dumped the contents of the bowl over it.

As soon as the potion touched his flesh, his skin popped and churned like boiling water. A chill spread through Belle’s limbs. What if she’d done it wrong? What if she’d poisoned him? What if he was already dead? What if, what if…?

Suddenly, Rumplestiltskin jerked. He arched over his knees and began coughing so violently that Belle thought he’d turn inside-out.Blood and saliva spattered onto the floor, and when he’d run out of both, his coughing became strangled gasps of air.

Oh gods. She’d killed him, hadn’t she?

“Rumple, please don’t die,” she said, as she rubbed a circle between his shoulder blades. She buried her face against his trembling shoulder. The tears she’d been fighting since she’d first seen the extent of his injury finally spilled over. “Please, I’m so sorry. I thought I’d mixed it properly, but I was in such a hurry. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t…”

“Don’t—” A wheeze. “Don’t what?”

Belle looked up. Rumplestiltskin was eyeing her through his hair, but he turned away as another coughing fit took him.

“You’re alive!” She said.

He bobbed his head in agreement, then waved his hand. Belle stared dumbly at it until something clonked her in her temple.

“Ow! What—”

It was _the_ teacup. The one she’d broken, the one he’d insisted on using even though the sight of it had made her prickle with embarrassment for weeks after the fact. It rocked in midair as though shaking itself off before floating forward again. This time, Belle leaned back to allow it access to its master.

He sat up and plucked the cup out of the air, then tipped its contents down his throat. The coughing tapered off to Rumplestiltskin thumping a fist against his chest and wheezing. He grimaced as he hauled himself to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Belle asked, rising with him.

A raspy sound emerged when he opened his mouth. He raised a finger, then thumped his chest a few more times while clearing his throat.

“Of course. Did you think a nick like that would kill me, dearie?”

Belle narrowed her eyes. And perhaps it was the lack of oxygen making him dizzy, but for once Rumplestiltskin had the grace to look sheepish.

“You _ass_ ,” Belle said before she hugged him, mindful of his recently healed wound.

He laughed hoarsely and looped an arm over her back. “Such language!”

“Don’t scare me like that again.” Belle muttered into his chest.

“Only if you promise to avoid murderers on the highway.”

She’d been so caught up with saving him that she’d forgotten all about her attack. She shook her head and smiled. “Deal.”

A thought occurred to her. She leaned back to eye him. “How did you know I was in trouble? I was miles from the castle.”

His eyelids slid down into the look Belle had come to associate with “It’s none of your business.” Then, he seemed to relent.

“The crows,” he said.

“What?”

He tipped his head towards the window. “Crows have roosted in the Dark Castle for more than two hundred years. With all the magic surrounding this place, they’ve taken on some…interesting quirks. Speech, for example.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “They can talk? But I’ve never heard them utter a peep!”

“They don’t talk to just _anyone_ , dearie.”

Something about the way his eye twitched made Belle suspect that the crows had been instructed to specifically not talk to _her_. But she didn’t press the matter. If it hadn’t been for Rumplestiltskin and his crows, she would still be out on the road with that man. The possibility alone made her feel ill.

“Well, you’ll have to tell them ‘thank you’ for me.” She said, smiling.

He bobbed his head in agreement. Then, he frowned.

“Did he hurt you?” He asked. Before she could answer, he caught one of her hands in his own and examined it. “Your palms…”

“That wasn’t from today.” Belle said quietly.

He looked like he wanted to be sick.

“Belle. I’m so sorry.”

She said nothing. When their eyes met, he was the first to look away.

“I…I can make something for this,” he said. “To mend the skin. Did I…”

He closed his eyes. Swallowed.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She considered this. “There’s nothing magic can do for it.”

“What about time?” He asked.

“Perhaps.”

“I’d like to try.”

“Are you sure?”

He clasped her hand—gently. And though his face was pinched with pain and regret, Belle could see the hope lurking in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

“You can’t really promise that,” she said. And the hope cringed, curled in on itself, started to retreat.

“But—” she brought their linked hands to her lips and brushed a kiss over his knuckles, smiling. “It’s a start.”


End file.
